


The Next Best Thing

by PersianPenName



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Confessions of Love, Accidental Voyeurism, Alexander the Yeah I Guess He's Okay, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Apology Twink, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Being an Angel (Good Omens), Bad At Words?, Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Craftsmanship As Foreplay, Creators of the Original Apology Twink, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Did I do more research on Macedonia-ruled Egypt than I needed to? Yes I did, Did any of it come up? No it did not, F/F, F/M, Face-Fucking, Fucking by Proxy, Hand Jobs, He doesn't quite get there but let's go ahead and tag, I Now Know More About Ancient Chinese Glassworking Than I Expected To Learn For Porn, I almost called this one 'a dick by any other name', I went back and fixed it though, Intercrural Sex, It's only a matter of time, Just to be safe, M/M, Massage, Masturbation, Multi, Other, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Rimming, Say It With Twinks, Sensual Inkmaking, Spitroasting, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, Want To Say You're Sorry?, also you know he loves to eat sooooo, fucking through history, this message brought to you by Twink Co., yall I forgot he was called Crawley in the first chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24036985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersianPenName/pseuds/PersianPenName
Summary: Inspired bythis prompton the kink meme.Aziraphale catches Crowley having sex with a human. And well, if he can't have Crowley, wouldn't someone he's been with be the next best thing?
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens)/Original Male Character(s), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 107
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	1. Greece, 480 B.C.E.

The first time it happens is in Greece, in a small village outside of Athens. Aziraphale is just passing through when he catches the vibration of a demonic miracle through the aether, a flash of heat and tingling across his aura that puts him in mind these days more of the pleasant burn of a spicy dish than the torments of hell, and causes his feathers to twitch on their hidden plane.

He doesn’t _run_ , but his steps get a little faster as he turns to walk in that direction. The village isn’t large enough to have a bad side, per se, but the dingy inn near the docks comes close, and it’s in the shadow of that building that he sees them.

The boy is lovely, golden-skinned and golden-curled, sturdily built and with generous thighs. Crawley is behind him, forehead resting between the boy’s shoulderblades and hands clutched on those golden hips, fucking into those thighs with a wet slap of skin.

Oh my. Oh goodness - he should leave. He should turn away. He should, at the very least, stop _looking_. Stop listening to Crawley’s panting breaths, his soft moans, stop watching the way he sucks kisses - oh good lord! - into the space where wings would emerge on one of their own.

Aziraphale is _achingly_ hard.

He settles for a calculated retreat, far enough away that he won’t draw attention but still close enough to watch. He’s facing away from them, pretending to examine the horizon, but he has more eyes than just those in his corporation, and on the other plane a multitude of hidden lids open and focus with angelic precision on the face and movements of the demon.

It’s not long, after that. Crawley wraps a hand around the boy’s cock and pumps him in time with his own thrusts, and the youth cries out and spills his pleasure over those lovely, long fingers. Crawley’s face tightens, almost a look of pain, and he muffles himself against the boy’s back and comes with a few last, hard thrusts. As much as he expects anything, Aziraphale expects that to be the end of it, demonic lusts sated, so he’s surprised by the almost tender way Crawley holds the lad, pressing kisses into his hair. The boy turns to catch his lips, then playfully pushes the demon away, clearly intending to go clean himself. Aziraphale watches Crawley put his hands up in mock surrender and walk away, hips swaying loose and liquid as he goes.

His throat dry, Aziraphale turns and follows the boy where he’s gone down to the sea. The lad turns to him, fuck-drunk and smiling. “Let me wash up,” he says, “and I can attend to you as well, sir.”

“No!” The word rips out of Aziraphale’s throat without his permission. He pauses, breathes. Breathes. “No, like this -- I want you just like this.”

Up close, it’s clear he’s not as young as the angel had taken him for. There are lines around his eyes, from laughing and squinting against the sun, and calluses on his hands from years of hard work. He laughs as Aziraphale sinks to his knees on the sand and buries his face against the man’s thighs, those strong hands coming to rest in his own blonde curls.

The scent of the demon’s sweat and spend is intoxicating - salt and musk and something indefinably _Crawley_ , mixed with the taste of olive oil as he gives in and begins to lick and suck at the warm skin beneath him. The man sighs softly as Aziraphale cleans him with his tongue, cock still soft but twitching with interest as the angel shifts his legs apart to delve deeper, searching with nose and tongue for every trace of demonic flavor. He takes a bollock into his mouth and sucks lightly, then the other; mouths over the man’s cock where Crawley’s fingers had stroked and tastes the same salt.

He’s not as young as Aziraphale had imagined, but he feels the man hardening again under his mouth. His gasps and moans are higher, the taste of him not the same, but all Aziraphale can think is _Crawley, Crawley, Crawley._ The man’s cock is fashionably short, but _thick_ , like his own. And oh, there’s a thought - Crawley’s hand around _his_ cock, fucking _his_ thighs, and he moans around the heavy weight in his mouth, the slide of skin over his lips. He begins to bob his head and suck with purpose, _Crawley, Crawley, Crawley._ He wants what the demon has had, wants to draw forth that same pleasure from this human whose name he doesn’t even know, wants to take what he can get of his beautiful, beloved enemy and lock it away inside himself to cherish forever.

The man comes, tightening his strong hands in Aziraphale’s hair and a flood of salt over his tongue, and it’s just enough, it’s _perfect_ , and Aziraphale pulses and spends with him. Rough fingers pet his head as they rest against each other, both breathless for the moment, until Aziraphale becomes aware of the ache of shells pressing against his knees and climbs groaning to his feet.

He presses a handful of coins into the man’s hand, blushing _now_ , when it’s all over, and tries to ignore the stickiness of his peplos against his thigh as he flees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by [Malkontent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malkontent/pseuds/Malkontent), [Luna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaFanWork/pseuds/LunaFanWork) and [Kennesaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kennesaw/pseuds/Kennesaw), at 4 in the goddamn morning


	2. Greece, 480 B.C.E (continued)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this bit after the first chapter was up, I know it's short but it didn't feel right to fold it in with the next encounter, so enjoy a tiny chapter!

_Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear,_ oh, this is bad, this is bad, this is BAD! Aziraphale’s thoughts swim in circles, a panicked tizzy that mirrors his oscillating tread around his small room. 

He had just-- a _demon!_ \-- and he’d -- ohhhh dear oh dear oh _fuck_. Oh, he knew his predilection for putting things in his mouth would get him into trouble sooner or later, he’d just never thought like _this!_

Goodness, he can still _taste_ him, still feel the tingling heat at the thought of it - Crawley, on his lips, on his _tongue!_ \- spreading like fire from his belly.  
  
Oh, dear. He’s still a bit… sticky, isn’t he. That’s much less than ideal. He raises his hand to miracle himself clean, and stops. There’s been no flash of lightning. No heavenly Voice demanding he explain himself, not even a strongly-worded letter left on his desk. 

Perhaps. Perhaps?

Perhaps they _haven’t noticed._ And oh, if so, it wouldn’t do to go calling attention to himself, now would it? Best to just wash up in the human fashion, a sponge and some water and a clean set of clothes. No need to spend a miracle on something so simple, surely! No need to bother Heaven with something so easy to do himself. And if. If it was really _terrible_ , surely She would say something? I mean, She knew everything, so surely She knew about _this_. And it wasn’t like She didn’t have a _history_ of telling angels when they’d displeased Her. Never been shy about _that_.

And -- and it wasn’t as if he’d -- not _directly_ , and of course he’d never let it happen _again_ , surely not! It was a… moment of weakness. A one-time thing. Barely a blip in the grand scheme of things, really. And never to be repeated, of course. Never happen again.  
  


The next time was in Persia.


	3. Persia, 330 B.C.E.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finds Crowley in a compromising position, in the army of Alexander the Great.

Aziraphale is marching with the League of Corinth, living up to his angelic heritage as a messenger (for once). He is not the fastest runner, or the best rider, but he always gets his missives delivered in almost  _ miraculous _ time and with perfect recall.

He’s with the army for a full two months before he realizes Crawly is there with him. He’s not sure what position the demon’s inserted himself into, but when Aziraphale is sent to Alexander’s tent on a quiet evening in January, the one being inserted  _ into him _ is so arresting he freezes on the spot.

Crawley is on his hands and knees, bare save for a thin golden chain about his waist, with the General’s hands twined in his hair to keep Crawley’s mouth in place and Hephaestion sinking deeply into him from behind. The firelight flows warmly over bared skin, soft shadows accenting his hollowing cheeks as he sucks at Alexander’s retreating cock, and Aziraphale swallows thickly.

“Yes? Messenger?” Alexander raises one eyebrow at him, but does not stop his slow slide back into Crawley’s mouth.

“Mm-- message… from…” What is he doing with his  _ tongue? _ “Prisoner. A prisoner. Back way.” Oh Lord his thighs are shaking, Hephaestion’s hands digging into the scant meat of him. “To the Persians. General. Sir.” That cock sliding in and out and slick and wet and sweat-- sweat dripping down his sides, follow the trail of it, dripping from him and  _ oh lord _ it’s not the only thing that’s dripping, that rosy red long  _ delicious _ looking cock slapping up against his stomach as Hephaestion thrusts harder, now, and Aziraphale’s heart beats in time,  _ Crawley Crawley Crawley _ \--

“What? They found a way around the Persian army? Who did? When?” Alexander stills for a moment, almost slipping out of Crawley’s mouth, but the demon uses the new slack in the hands holding him to follow the General’s cock, suckling lightly at the head now and shooting Aziraphale a surprised look.

He’s sure he must have answered. Must have recited the message as it was given to him, eventually, the details falling automatically from him as his eyes stay trained on Crawley’s lips, his back, his red, red hair. He must have answered, because Alexander rolls his eyes theatrically and tightens his grip on that hair, following Hephaestion’s lead and finishing hard and fast into the demon, waving a hand at them both to get out of his damn tent already as now he has  _ work _ to do.

Aziraphale is standing outside with Crawley, who is scowling back at the tent flap and muttering, cock still red and hard, with a trail of semen at the corner of his lips. The angel is gaping like a fish, mouth opening and closing on nothing, not words, not air, and the only thing he can think to do is miracle up a soft bit of linen and extend it across the vast, uncrossable space between them.

Crawley just blinks at him. Frowns. 

“You’ve got… just a bit, right there,” he hears himself say, and the uncrossable space is shrunk, vanished, the cloth wiped gently across Crawley’s lips which are wet and swollen with their night’s work. He swallows, drawing Aziraphale’s eyes to his long neck and the damp sheen of sweat there, and for a moment tilts his head back to allow the cloth to follow the smooth lines of his throat down to those lovely collarbones. Aziraphale can’t seem to keep his gaze from drawing lower, to that thin chest and soft pink nipples, his sternum, the divot of his navel, lower,  _ lower _ \--

“Eyes are up here, Angel.” Crawley drawls, and his head snaps back up. He can feel the heat rising to his face, and Crawley is red to the ears despite his feigned nonchalance. His golden eyes betray him, as always, flicking from Aziraphale’s hand, to his mouth, to his eyes, then away, away. The demon sniffs indifferently, as though he’s  _ not _ standing next to his hereditary enemy in nothing but a bit of jewelry with a raging erection and a human’s spunk leaking down his thighs. He snaps his fingers and is clean, sex hair tamed into a long braid, and a simple chiton hiding his body from the angel once again. He somehow manages to give the impression of putting his hands in the pockets that he definitely doesn’t have. “Got a… thing. To do. Temptation,” he says. “Meet up for drinks later, though, yeah?”

And he’s sauntering away, Aziraphale silently watching him go, still holding the linen in his hand. 

He makes it back to his tent in a bit of a daze, collapsing on his small stack of blankets. He realizes that his cock is  _ throbbing _ , has been for a while, perhaps since he first walked into the General’s tent. Groaning, he fumbles in his luggage for the small bottle of oil he’s taken to keeping with him these past few decades and splashes a bit more than he intended onto his hand.   
  
He leans back on the bed, warm oil-slicked fingers giving a quick once-over to his aching cock before dipping lower to sink between his clenched thighs. Two fingers part the flesh of him, rubbing against his perineum, and out of habit the well-worn fantasy of the demon sliding hot and wet against him here begins to build behind his eyes.

He brings the linen to his face, letting the salt scent of Crawley’s sweat fill his lungs, and the scene changes.  _ He’s the one on his hands and knees, now, with a firelit Crawley in a golden chain rubbing Aziraphale’s face against his groin, while the Crawley from a century and half a continent ago kneels behind him. Now-Crawley tugs on his hair, and when he opens his mouth to gasp slides his cock between Aziraphale’s lips. Then-Crawley keeps sliding slow and grinding between his thighs, but his hands move from the angel’s hips to trace up and down the cleft of his ass, slowly dragging his thumb over and around his entrance. _

In his bed, Aziraphale moves his slick hand back, farther than he usually bothers, and teases himself, while the linen-clad fingers of his other hand press insistently into his mouth.

_ His senses are full of Crawley, the taste of him, the feel of him against his tongue, as Now-Crawley holds his head still and fucks gently into him. Behind him, Then-Crawley leans over his back and presses kisses into his shoulders, into his wing joints, murmuring soft nothings that he can never quite imagine properly. _

**_fuck angel yes want you feel you taste you so good angel fuck lick stroke suck you bite you kiss you angel angel angel my angel need you want you so good_ **

God, he’s so hard. He wants more, more Crawley, wants to feel himself filled at both ends with him, wants his hands in his hair, on his neck, on his nipples, on his cock. The hand in his mouth moves down to tease lightly at the head, draw the foreskin gently up and down, lips left suckling at salt-slick linen

_ Now-Crawley holds him still, cock just resting on his lips, as Then-Crawley lines himself up and pushes in. He bottoms out inside Aziraphale and keeps going, letting the momentum of his thrust sink Now-Crawley’s cock deeper into the angel’s mouth.  _   
  
Aziraphale whimpers as he finally presses into himself, two fingers as far as he can take them, not  _ enough _ , never enough, never those long thin fingers working into him, working over him, and he bucks his hips into his fist and feels tears slip down his face.

_ Crawley, Crawley, Crawley _ . Crawley in his mouth, in his body, between his thighs, around his cock. Crawley any way he can have him, every way he can have him, until he feels the coiling pressure build between his hips, stronger and stronger, until with a cry his vision goes white and he comes and comes, over one hand and around the other. Panting, shaking, he wipes the spit-damp cloth over his face and belly and hands, cleaning off the oil and come in the human manner, until his eyes pop open in realization that he’s just destroyed the last of Crawley’s taste and scent with his own.

As angry and fussy as a tired child, he tosses the linen into the brazier for its crimes, only to repent when it is already blackening to ash. The pang of frustration and loss sours his post-orgasm mood, even as he tries to tell himself that it’s really for the best. After all, occult beings probably shouldn’t leave bodily fluids laying about willy-nilly for any old human to … do whatever human witches did with such things, presumably. And yes, he may have had a moment of weakness (again), but surely She knew how hard he fought against the temptation of the demon himself, and being rid of the cloth would make that… easier, probably. And it’s not like he would do it  _ again _ .

(He re-corked the oil and carefully packed it back into his luggage.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, I'm not dead after all!


	4. Egypt, 320 B.C.E.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale catches up to Crawley in Egypt, and receives a demonstration.

When Aziraphale catches up to Crawley next, she's floating belly-up in the Nile. Her skin is golden-dark, her wet hair almost black, and she's smiling. Aziraphale feels like he's been sweating for ages, his corporation still recovering from a bit of chafing between the thighs from before he'd learned to spread lotion there.

Crawley cracks an eye, flips over, and paddles closer. “Hello, Aziraphale. Fancy a dip?” Aziraphale shrugs gratefully out of his robes, laying them carefully over a low stone fence, and soon they're both bobbing chest-deep in the cool waters.

It's a while after that before either of them speaks, the silence companionable and dear. Eventually, Aziraphale sighs. “I'm sorry about last time,” he says quietly. “I didn't mean to intrude.”

Crawley waves a lazy hand out of the water. “Don't worry about it. Long forgotten. Water under the bridge.” They float again in silence for a time, until Crawley gives a long stretch and starts walking back to shore. “They make a decent beer around here,” she calls back, gently wringing out her hair and pulling a sheer linen dress over her damp skin. It clings to her long legs and pert bottom, and Aziraphale is glad of the river's relative chill as he follows after.

Crawley's home is small but fine, with stone walls and rugs covering the floor. She invites him to sit, and fetches clay jugs of the local brew for each of them. The silence descends again for a while, until the question that's been niggling the back of Aziraphale's mind just has to come out.

“Do you... often get called upon to do that? For work, I mean.” He stares down at his jug of beer, already mentally kicking himself.

Crowley blinks, slowly, then buys herself some time with another swallow of her own drink. When she speaks, her voice is carefully casual. “Fucking humans, you mean? Nah.” She shrugs. “S'just recreational. Bit of fun, you should try it some time.”

He can feel his cheeks reddening, and he takes a long sip of his drink. Too long, as it turns out; he can feel her gaze on his red ears, and practically _hear_ her smiling.

“Aziraphale...!” She sits up and leans closer. “Are you telling me that you, an _angel of the lord_ , have gotten hot and heavy with a human? Ohhhhh, naughty, _naughty_ angel!” She leans back with a delighted laugh, then her eyes open wide with a thought. “Angel, did you— are you— did you make _Nephilim_?”

He sputters indignantly. The nerve! “No! Of course not! I never— nothing I did could result in pregnancy, I _am_ careful, you know. I've only ever been with men, and with the ones who had vulvas, we opted for… alternate methods.”

“What about your own cunt, though?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Haven’t had one, actually. My corporation isn’t as _mutable_ as yours, my dear, I’m only supposed to alter it for work, and fiddling around with melanin and cartilage to blend in isn’t _nearly_ the same as reworking entire systems of organs.”

“Wha— but— It’s been over _three and a half millennia_! Are you _seriously_ trying to tell me you’ve never once been female?”

“Of _course_ I’ve been female, weren’t you listening?” He rolls his eyes heavenwards in frustration. “I just had a cock while I did it, that’s all.”

Crawley gives him a slow once-over. “You know,” she says softly, “there’s really no reason to bother with all the whatsits, the internal bits. That’s what I do, just change the important parts, the ones that feel good.” Aziraphale feels his mouth go dry as Crawley reclines back onto some pillows, one hand stroking slowly over the slight softness of her belly. “Love a good cunt, me. Different than a cock, everything’s more… spread about.” Her hand moves up to trace a line between her small breasts, the linen of her dress dry now but still so sheer that the dark circles of her nipples are clearly visible. “Takes a little longer to get going, but oh, when you’ve got that _momentum_?” Her head tips back, and her long fingers stroke over her throat and collarbones, back down her sternum, detour briefly to run just the tips of her nails over the soft skin of her inner elbow and down to her wrist. His eyes can’t help but follow their progress, sharp and decorated with henna, as she moves them down her sides, along the crease of her hip, and rakes them across her belly.

“Crawley…” he breathes, “What are you doing?”

She lets one knee fall open, draws the other in, and Aziraphale can _see_ now, can see the dark thatch of hair between her thighs through the linen. She reclines fully on the pillows, one hand reaching up to tangle in her hair, and the other rests now on her thigh, slowly scrunching the fabric of her dress higher and higher.

“Just a demonstration, angel.” Her voice is low and quiet. “That’s all this is.”

He watches as inch after tantalizing inch of lean leg is revealed, shapely calf, delicate knee, and _oh, he would like to place kisses there_. Her thighs next, slim but muscular, with just the tiniest hint of padding there at her inner thigh, just enough to get between his teeth and — 

“ _Aziraphale_.” His name from her lips is like a caress. He looks up and meets her gaze, those beautiful golden eyes watching him, and he can’t look away. Her thin lips are dark where she’s bitten them, and the tongue that’s peeking out between them is longer than a human’s and _forked_. Her voice is almost playful now, “Are you paying attention?”

He gives her a look that asks, quite clearly, how he’s supposed to manage to be doing anything _else_ , and she laughs.

“I can’t speak for your other partners, but for me it feels like… gravity.” She’s fully exposed now, labia flushed and dewy, and the hand that had been in her hair strokes over the cradle of her hips. “Like a pull, right here,” her hand presses into the dip just above her mons, “And then waves, tingling like ssstarlight, up and over the whole of me. It lingers here,” she brushes a hand against her nipples, “and here.” The pad of her thumb moves slowly over her bottom lip, and she shivers. 

Aziraphale swallows, uncomfortably aware of how close they’re sitting, how warm the room is, how the scent of her skin blends with the green and muddy scent of the river and the sweet tang of the local beer still on his lips. He wants to touch her, wants to kiss her, wants to cover her mouth with his and feel every tingle through her skin.

She brushes her fingers over her lips again, and her nose crinkles as she gives something between a grimace and a smile. “Bit too sssensitive,” she explains, “When it’s just me.” She rubs her mouth firmly against the back of her hand, blushing from her ears to her neck, and Aziraphale feels something inside his chest flutter and expand.

She shakes her shoulders, taking control of herself once again, and tips her head to the side to show off her long neck. She draws her fingertips over it again, traces them back and forth on her sternum, and her chest rises as she gives a deep sigh of contentment. One side of her dress has slipped down at the shoulder, and she pushes it further down, baring one breast, before lightly scratching her nails over and around it. It’s not much more than she has in her masculine form — the demon has never been one for extra flesh — but the nipples are larger as she rolls and pinches them, and it makes his mouth water to imagine their taste.

Crawley slides her hand back down to cup her sex, gently squeezing the flesh of her mons and stroking down her labia. “They’re sturdier than they seem, angel. I can feel my heartbeat in them, sssometimes.” Her middle and ring fingers dip in between her lips, gently parting them so Aziraphale can see the flushed skin of her, the wetness gathering there. “I like to start out jussst feeling it all,” her voice is soft and husky now, luring him in, and Aziraphale can feel the urge to come forward, to lean closer, to follow her fingers with his own, to replace them with his tongue. 

He remains where he is.

She swirls her fingers against her entrance and draws them up, pulling back the hood to let her proud clit peek out. “It ssstarts out like a cock that’s just come, too sensitive at first, but give it some time and… _aah!_ ” she throws her head back, giving little hissing breaths. “Round the sssides is good, makes it all, _mmm_ …” Her eyes close and her mouth falls open, distracted for the moment by the workings of her own body. Her fingers slide up and down the sides of her clit, working the hood back and forth, and Aziraphale is entranced. She dips down, gather more wetness, then presses up in gentle circles, hips rocking slowly against her hand. The blush on her neck has moved down to her chest, her nipples standing erect, and her free hand continues to stroke and scratch against her inner thighs, the crease of her hips.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he sees that she’s shaking, that they both are. He lets it go in a rush, sees her skin pebble up with gooseflesh where it hits her, and she arches and cries out.

“Angel,” she pants, “Aziraphale.” The hand on her thigh moves up, over her side, palms her breast and squeezes. Her eyes are fully gold now, pupils dilated almost to roundness, mouth open and lips so tantalizingly red. She whines and curves her spine, wiggling closer like a snake, and both hands are on her cunt now, one rubbing at her clit while the other plunges two long fingers inside. Her face is so close he can feel her breath on his hand, hot and frantic as her hips thrust up against herself. Her eyes meet his, heavy-lidded, her brows drawing down in that same expression of not-quite-pain he remembers from that time in Greece. “Angel, _kiss me_.”

He wants to. Oh, Lord, he wants to. They’ve kissed before — chaste things, kisses of greeting, the merest brush of lips against skin. This, though — to kiss her on her open and wanting mouth, while she takes her pleasure, while she shakes and moans and breathes his name, oh, this would be different. He doesn’t think he could stop if he did, doesn’t think he can limit himself to tasting her mouth and not her neck, her breasts, her thighs. He would love her, fuck her, have her change so he could taste her cock as well, take it into himself, so deep they could never be parted. He doesn’t have the strength to merely sip from this cup, to nibble at this meal; he wants to know the meat of her, the satiation, the weight of her on his tongue and in his body.

He _covets_ her, his beautiful demon.

Oh, this can only be sin.

“My darling,” he whispers, “I can’t. My sweet, my love, my only. I can’t, I _can’t_. I’m sorry.” It takes everything in him, but he rises. Walks away from her. He makes it to just outside before he’s pressing his back against the door and freeing his cock from his robes, closing his eyes and focusing on the sounds he can still hear her making. It only takes a few strokes before he’s coming over the damp earth, another sharp note in the rich and humid air of the Two Kingdoms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was like pulling teeth, because where _I_ wanted the story to go, and where _they_ wanted the story to go was so different. Initially there wasn't going to be any sex this chapter, then there WAS but it was far more teasing and tempting on Crawley's part. They were going to have an argument mirroring the holy water scene, then they didn't. There was going to be mention of Crawley adopting a human orphan, then that entire story line was set aside for a different work. There was going to be political talk about Alexander, then I thought 'self, this is porn, that's not why folks are here, put the research down'. 
> 
> In the end I was ranting to my lovely [spouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kennesaw/pseuds/Kennesaw) about how these _soft idiots_ kept ruining my plans, and he laughed at me and said it's because I'm a soft idiot myself. 
> 
> I mean. I can't say he's _wrong_.


	5. Xianyang, 214 BCE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley apologizes for going too fast

Aziraphale has been avoiding Crawley for over two hundred years. 

He knows, because he counted.

So when Crawley feels an angelic miracle sparking over his senses like light on water, he assumes at first that it’s just wishful thinking. Then he catches a faint whiff of vanilla and iron, leather and red currants, that specific scent of old scrolls and good wines that means _Aziraphale_.

He makes a few discreet inquiries, and learns that the chubby, effeminate scribe with the unusual white hair has been in the Emperor’s orbit since he was just Zhao Zheng, King of Qin; a long-term posting, then. Crawley himself has no particular orders to be in the area, just coasting on the old standby of _going up and making trouble_ , but he’s fallen in with a group of freethinking scholars under his current guise as an artisan, and he’d hate to abandon them now. Besides, he’s had the angel’s last words to him rattling around in his head for long enough, and if he’s honest with himself (which he does try to be) he misses his friend.

He’s going to have to do something drastic. He’s going to have to _apologize_.

For all that Sloth is his favorite sin, Crawley likes to indulge his Pride and imagination with all the little details of a project. He also enjoys the tactility of his current profession, using his hands and his muscles to create something beautiful, as he once did with stars.

He starts, this time, with aromatic pine and sweet oils. Tung oil for the bulk of it, but he adds in benzoin and myrrh, sweetgum and cedar. This he burns with a thin plume of hellfire, under a smooth porcelain bowl that catches the smoke and soot of it. He collects it with a brush made from his own shed feathers, and when he has enough he grinds and sifts it to make sure it’s the lightest possible powder. Normally he lets the powder age, but he doesn’t want to lose the faintest touch of his own power the hellfire brings. It’s not enough to hurt — never to hurt! — but enough that it should feel warm in the hand when held. ~~How would it feel, to hold the angel?~~

He heats the glue slowly, over a mundane fire this time, because he’s never been able to stand the admixture of hellfire and animal substances. When it’s golden and thick and flows like honey, he pours it into a smooth stone vessel and mixes it with the soot. He grinds pearls up in his hands, fine dark ones with sheens of blue and purple and green, and lets it drift into the black and shining dough. More resins, now, the same mixture as before, so that the sweet scent of them clings to his black-fingered hands that knead and fold and pound and stretch. When the dough is mixed thoroughly, rich and thick and uniformly black, he unwraps a pair of rosewood molds carved to his specifications by his favorite woodcarver, carefully fills them and clamps them shut.

There’s enough of the dough for two sets of each mold, and a pair of plain sticks besides. He sets them to dry and age on his reed-woven racks, in a special bubble of sped-up time so that each day that passes draws out the moisture as slowly and evenly as if it had rested for a year [[1](%E2%80%9C#note1%E2%80%9D)]. In a little over a week, he has six sticks of perfect ink, smooth and hard as bone, with a shine like lacquer.

The easy part of his apology is done.

  
Integrating himself at court doesn’t take long. Some of his scholars move in the right circles, toeing the party line by day and letting loose over jugs of wine and the company of like-minded friends. He’s pretty enough to be mistaken for a junior clerk who rose to his position by sinking to his knees, and it’s simple enough for a door that used to lead to an unused storage closet to open on a comfortable bedroom instead.

He lets himself be seen, running messages and doing busywork wherever he catches the scent of the angel in the halls. His robes are cut just that slight bit tighter, let fall just that little bit open across his collarbones, and his smooth face, long and braided hair, and snake sigil hint at both femininity and a criminal past without openly declaring either. It’s not long before disapproving tongues are wagging about the scandalous new clerk, which has the twin rewards of endearing him to the type of young clerk he needs for the next stage of his apology, and of inciting enough low-level Envy and Lust that he can mark it towards his quota. The Song lad is brought on board over several jars of wine and just enough of the truth to get an utterly wrong but _compelling_ impression. Crawley meets him before sunset the next day and brings him to his room, helps him disrobe and leads him to the pile of soft blankets. 

Jing is young, and lithe, and _gorgeous_. His hair is soft, scented with sandalwood and something floral Crawley can’t quite place, and his skin smooth and luminous in the candlelight. He’s warm and clean from the baths, and he smiles up at Crawley as the demon straddles his hips. It’s been too long since he’s had his hands on someone lovely and willing, and he lets himself enjoy the sensation as he slides his oiled hands over the young man’s back.

It’s easy to find and ease the knots, the muscles close to the surface in the man’s spare frame, not unlike Crawley’s own. His fingers glide and knead but don’t _sink in_ , there’s none of the plushness that he craves in the body beneath him, save for the round cheeks that — yes, not his imagination, are gently rising up to rub against his stiffening cock. Crawley leans down to nip at the man’s shoulder, and is drawn down into a kiss that starts out hot and demanding, but Crawley pulls back just enough to turn it into something soft and gentle.

“Patience, pet,” he murmurs against soft lips, “You’ll get everything you want soon enough.” Still, his body is awake now, and the urge to rut his cock against him is enticing. _Later_ , he tells himself, and resumes his massage. He pushes down with just a hint of his infernal strength, eliciting a series of cracks and pops all up Jing’s spine, and the human melts with a satisfied groan, content at last to let Crawley do as he will. The demon takes his time, rubbing and pulling and stretching at Jing’s pliant body until he’s almost insensate with relaxation, skin soft and fragrant as flower petals.

With a gently steaming towel, he wipes down the long stretch of Jing’s back, canvas finally ready for his work. He takes up a small bowl of the ink he’d prepared and begins to write, graceful flowing strokes building character upon character. He’d agonized over the wording for ages, well before stumbling across the angel here, and while it still doesn’t feel quite perfect, it’s as close as he’s likely to get. When the last brush stroke is finished, he sets his tools aside and blows gently over the clerk’s back in his first infernal miracle since joining the court. The ink will not smudge, or dampen, or transfer onto Jing’s robes; it will only come off at Aziraphale’s urging, and if he’s as clever as Crawley knows he is, he’ll have felt the miracle and be alerted to his presence now if he wasn’t already. It’s time for the final bit of preparation.

Crawley kisses his way down Jing’s spine, fingers trailing over his sides. He dips his fingers in the massage oil and spreads it over Jing’s hole, rubbing gently at the rim and pressing in. The ease with which his body opens up tells Crawley how he spent his bath earlier, and makes the glass plug (a soft jade color, but without the lead and barium and other toxic bits that’s going into the local glass at the moment) slide in easily. He takes a moment to move the plug in and out, teasing and watching the human’s cock begin to fill, before giving his thigh a final pat and sitting back on his heels.

Jing stretches like a cat and smiles up at him. Crawley helps him to stand and dress, gives him the small package wrapped in red silk.

“ _Make him happy_ ,” Crawley whispers, and kisses him on the forehead before sending him on his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 This will have to even out into several years of slow time in this same spot, as the rest of the universe catches up. The woman who lives there after him doesn’t understand how or why food placed on those shelves never seems to spoil, but she’s smart enough to keep it to herself and mourns when the effect wears off.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]
> 
> I was challenged to make research sexy, so here you go: the sexiest damn inkmaking I could muster.


	6. Xianyang, 214 BCE (continued)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now with 100% more Apology Twink!

Aziraphale has been avoiding Crawley for over two hundred years. 

So when he feels the infernal miracle happening in the _same building_ where he’s been living since Qin Shi Huang changed his name, his first instinct is to panic.

Oh dear, he can’t leave here yet, he _can’t_ , his assignment won’t be over for several years yet! He wants to see Crawley — he wants to run away — he wants to freeze like a prey animal hoping to escape unnoticed. He desperately tries to remember when the last time was that he’d performed a miracle, then looks down at the pot of tea that’s been perfectly warm and unflaggingly full for the last several hours, no matter how many times he’s refilled his cup.

Well. Definitely not unnoticed, then.

He sets aside his scrolls and stands up; time to take his lumps. He imagines Crawley will be _quite_ cross, but he’ll apologize and invite him back for some drinks and perhaps that will — 

There’s a knock at his door.

He opens it, expecting a man- or woman-shaped demon, but finding only a man-shaped… well, _man_. Song Jing, one of the younger clerks, a very pretty lad he’s admired from afar on more than one occasion. From what he can tell, he’s wearing only a loosely-tied robe, and carrying a small something wrapped in red silk.

“Xie Zhen, I have a gift and a letter for you,” Jing holds out the package in his hands. “From our mutual friend.” Aziraphale takes it in confusion as Jing brushes past him into his own room, and seats himself on Aziraphale’s bed.

“I… what? What mutual friend?” He looks down at the distinctly not-scroll-shaped package. “And what letter?”

At this, Jing smirks and unties his robe, letting it pool around his waist and reveal his bare chest. _Lovely_. Aziraphale can feel the blush rising on his cheeks, when Jing sweeps his hair forward and turns to display his back.

_I’m sorry about our last meeting. I forgot myself, and pushed you too far; we both are what we are, and I wouldn’t change that for anything. Your company means too much to me for this to have broken our friendship. Please, can we pretend it never happened?_

_I made you something. One set for you, and one for me. We could write each other, if you’re not ready to see me in person._

_Please remove this letter once you’ve read it. I hope the canvas is to your liking._

_Ever yours._

There is no signature, but none is needed; the faint hint of power tells him who had written it, and — yes, he’d even written it in one of the banned scripts, no less. _Of course he had_. If that wasn’t sign enough, when he unwraps the silk in his hands it reveals three large ink sticks, one plain and two shaped. The first is in the form of a serpent coiling in and around itself, the second a sword amidst feathers, and both are accented with apple blossoms. They feel warm in his hands, like living things, and as he brings them to his face he is entranced by their complex fragrance. A light, woody musk; rich middle notes of oudh or sandalwood; a hint of sugar and resinous balsam; powdery notes of amber and vanilla; just a hint of blood-dark berries. He can tell from their heft and shine that they are of the finest quality — it is, quite literally, a princely gift.

From _Crawley_. Who had _apologized_. To _him!_ He knows he’s smiling like a fool, vision blurring with tears, as he sits down on the bed with the ink sticks pressed close to his chest. He’s almost forgotten the young man sitting with him, until he feels a hand on his cheek brushing the tears away.

“He said you can’t be together, because of your families, but he wants you to be happy.” Soft kisses are pressed into his temple, warm lips at his ear. “Let me make you happy.”

He should say no, shouldn’t he? This lovely, dear man, this sweet young thing, oh, he wasn’t — he didn’t — he was licking and sucking at Aziraphale’s neck is what he was, one hand rubbing the angel’s soft chest. Such a _dear_ thing, really, nibbling at his collarbones and, _oh_ , yes, he was definitely doing this. Putting a hand to the boy’s chin, he interrupts his trail of kisses down Aziraphale’s stomach and brings Jing’s mouth to his. “My dear,” he murmurs against soft lips, “let us make _both of us_ happy.”

With that, goes to place Crawley’s thoughtful gift with his writing set and fetch some oil. He’s just straightening up when he feels long arms wrap around him and clever fingers start undoing his own clothing. Soon he’s as bare as the human before him, and he watches Jing’s eyes darken as he takes in his own sturdy frame. With another kiss, Aziraphale settles himself back on the bed and pulls Jing into his lap, running his hands over slim thighs and up his strong back. He truly is beautiful, lean and delicate as a young tree, and he shivers delightfully as Aziraphale grips a handful of that soft, dark hair and _pulls_. The boy’s cock is built like the rest of him, long and lean, and Aziraphale lets his hand trace down the planes of his chest and stomach, over his hips, and takes him in hand. He revels in the feel of it, the slide of foreskin up and over the delicate head, the rub of the corona against his palm. Jing thrusts his hips up against his hand, and Aziraphale lets him for a time, content to watch, before Jing leans in to playfully nip at him, gathering some oil and reaching to bring Aziraphale’s cock up alongside his own. 

Aziraphale gasps as he presses his face into Jing’s neck, and rolls his hips. The slick slide of his cock against the boy’s taut stomach, the hot press of Jing’s cock against his own soft flesh, _oh_ , it’s just lovely. He wants to stay in the moment, stay present with the man he’s _actively with_ , but a soft and traitorous part of him is wondering if Crawley’s skin against his would feel this hot, this slick, this good against him. The thought pulls a groan out of him, and a hard thrust of his hips, and he’s leaving love-bites on Jing’s neck as the dear boy clutches his shoulders and comes with a surprised gasp. Aziraphale is overcome, thoughts of _hot slick wet Crawley YES!_ have him sliding through the sweat and spend in frantic motions, clutching at Jing’s buttocks, until he comes in long pulses against him, so hard he can feel the tingling in his wings. 

Soon enough Jing is gently drawing his hips away, wincing with oversensitivity, and Aziraphale kisses apologies into his throat before rising to fetch some water, heating it with a small miracle that he hopes the dear boy won’t question overmuch. Mindful of Crawley’s instruction, after cleaning them both he takes a fresh cloth and starts stroking it up and down Jing’s lean and lovely back, nuzzling into his hair and pressing sweet kisses into his shoulders.

In the time since he saw Crawley last, Aziraphale has been working on a little project — namely, how to produce miracles without tapping directly into the Power of Heaven. So far one of his more successful methods has been the temporary expansion of his angelic aura into that of a human’s — not to intermingle, merely to displace — and then a kind of _twist_ in his ethereal shape that doesn’t coerce so much as _cajole_ , shows by example how the aura could manipulate itself to achieve a result that really would be for the best, didn’t it think? It was particularly useful in healing, subtle enough to not rouse suspicion in onlookers (or his heavenly superiors) but tenacious. The humans recovered more quickly, more fully, and were less prone to ill-health in the future. 

It’s barely an effort to suggest to Jing’s body that it doesn’t have to feel _quite_ so tired if it doesn’t want to, and soon Aziraphale can see that lovely cock begin to twitch and fill once more. Aziraphale lets his hand trail lower, over the boy’s hip and buttock. “Sweet one,” he whispers, “do you like to take, or to be taken?” At this, Jing leans forward onto his elbows, displaying the graceful curve of his arse and — _oh, hello!_ — the smooth plug nestled between his cheeks. 

Aziraphale has a sudden image of Crawley, opening Jing up on his long fingers; rocking the plug in and out of him; perhaps even splitting him open on his own gorgeous cock, coming inside him, filling him with the demon’s spend before plugging him up and sending him to Aziraphale.

At that thought, Aziraphale is _hungry_ again, grasping the boy’s hips and pressing kisses over his back, his arse, his thighs. He indulges himself for a bit, nosing along the sweet flesh where his arse meets his leg, peppering kisses and long, dragging licks against him, sinking his teeth into one soft cheek, biting and _sucking_. He wants to mark him, run his nails all over this lean body, send him back to Crawley covered in proof of his enjoyment; his own return letter, _this is how I would touch you, please you. See in him the shape of my desire._ With a gentle tongue, he licks and sucks at the boy’s perineum, inhaling his soft scent and searching it for any hint of Crawley, but all he smells is human skin and salt and sweet oil, no demonic essence to chase after; he sets aside his disappointment.

At Jing’s whimpers, the gentle twitches of his hips, Aziraphale smiles, and rolls the boy onto his back before licking a slow stripe up his cock from root to tip. Stroking lightly with one hand, keeping his lips _just so_ around the head of Jing’s cock, the angel pulls gently at his testicles with his free hand, lets it slide back to skim over the smooth glass of the plug. “As lovely as this is, my dear, it’s not an answer. Do you want to be inside me, or for me to be inside you? We don’t have to do either, of course, I can always just keep sucking this — _mmm_ — this delicious cock of yours—” Jing’s hips jerk, cock filling the angel’s mouth, and Aziraphale can take a hint. He bobs his head up and down, lets Jing’s hands settle in his hair, and presses gently on the plug with each slide down. When that is met with a moan and a tangling of Jing’s fingers in his curls, he grasps the base and starts moving it in time to his mouth, letting each thrust of the plug and swallow of Aziraphale’s throat drive them both closer to release. Soon the hands in his hair are pulling him down onto the boy’s cock, fucking into his throat as the angel fucks him with the plug, and Aziraphale loves it, loves the weight of it against his tongue, loves the stretching ache in his jaw, and is eagerly anticipating the taste of the man’s spend when he’s pulled off, mouth left open and bereft.

All he can manage is a vague assemblage of vowels, querulous and indignant, and Jing is pulling him up into a kiss, rolling them both onto their sides. As their breathing slows, Jing reaches over to hitch one of Aziraphale’s legs over his hip. “Xie Zhen,” he whispers, covering Aziraphale’s face in kisses, “I want to be inside you.” He rocks his hips into Aziraphale’s, slick cocks sliding against each other once more. “I want to fuck you, and feel you come, and then I want to come inside this magnificent arse. Is that answer enough for you?”

Aziraphale groans and nods, reaching out for more oil for his already mouth-wet cock. He lets him press forward, the blunt head of Jing’s cock breaching him slowly, a careful push in and pull back that seats him more deeply with every return. At last Jing is flush against him, stretching him open so beautifully he thinks he might cry. To be connected in this way is always so precious, so hot and human and perfect, the sensitive nerve endings singing in joy as pure as any Seraphim around the throne of God, _holy holy holy_. At this moment he is truly a being of love, love for the earth and She who made it, love for his corporation that never feels so much like _his body_ as it does during this act, love for this sweet, sweet boy sharing such pleasure with him. As Jing begins to move within him, slow and deep, Aziraphale holds him close and presses their foreheads together. 

“You’re so lovely, my dear, so good — so good for me,” he pants into the boy’s lips. “Such a wonderful creature you are, ah, yes, _yes_ , just like that!” He can feel the echoes of Jing’s soul in the air between them, the compassion for Crawley’s tale of forbidden love, the generosity to give of himself in the demon’s place, the desire to reward Aziraphale’s kindness with physical pleasures. He knows the lad isn’t _in love_ with him, hadn’t expected he would be, but he can feel the love contained within him for his family, his other lovers, and catches a hint of someone special, of smiling dark eyes. With a kiss, he blesses the love he finds, wishing a lifetime of happiness to those held in the heart before him, and is genuinely surprised to feel some of it pour back, flavored by humanity. This is what tips him over the edge of tears, replaces his words with trembling gasps, and has him rolling onto his back so he can press his heels firmly into Jing’s backside. It’s so good, _so good_ , he feels so full of love for this marvelous, beautiful being inside him, for the sweet and wicked demon who sent him, for linear time and physical space that allow for such meetings, for — for — 

With a wail, he comes, head pressing back against the bed, lips and fingers and sweat-slick cock tingling like divinity and starlight. He feels Jing thrust and spend within him, hot and so _full_ , and pets his dark hair as he collapses onto the pillow of Aziraphale’s chest. They lay like this for several moments, before Aziraphale presses a kiss to his temple and carefully unhooks his legs from around Jing’s waist, letting him withdraw from the angel’s body. As the human settles more deeply into the bedding, Aziraphale cleans them both again. Jing murmurs something indecipherable, folding the blanket back in clear invitation, and Aziraphale allows himself to slip in next to the lovely boy and hold him until the sun rises.

* * *

Breakfast in the palace is a simple affair, at least for the junior clerks. Crawley is sitting alone with a cup of strong tea when Aziraphale slides in beside him, a simple rice pudding with mushroom and egg in hand. He gives a happy wiggle as he settles in to his meal, letting his shoulder brush against the demon’s, and smiles briefly up at him through his lashes before remarking, “One of the banned scripts, Crawley? Do you really think that’s wise?”

A knocking collection of consonants spills from Crawley’s mouth. “Tchyeah— of _course_ it was! ‘Banned script’ — who bans a _script?_ Someone who doesn’t like free thinkers, that’s who. _Definitely_ gonna be one of ours, that one.”

Aziraphale purses his lips in a show of disbelief. “He’s uniting the _region_ , Crawley. Standardizing coinage, measurements, getting all those little northern walls joined up together — and have you seen the canals? No, he’s improving the quality of life for his people, he’s bound for Upstairs, I’d put money on it.”

As they settle down into the familiar rhythm of debate, Crawley lets a fond smile creep up on his face, eyes half-closed and relaxed. Aziraphale’s lips twitch in suppressed mirth as he punctuates a point with a bite of egg, and he is content.


End file.
